


Fearful Symmetry

by linman



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 15:40:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7393378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linman/pseuds/linman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WIP amnesty for the Fourth of July: Gregor really has outdone himself with his nuptial fireworks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fearful Symmetry

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this like four years ago intending to go on with it, but at this point that's not happening, so -- amnesty! Happy Fourth.

_Boom!_

The sky outside bloomed in light: inside the Residence the brilliance of the lamps seemed suddenly stale.  There was a collective intake of breath, and ( _boom!_ ) everyone inside was drawn to the windows and doors.

Beside Ekaterin, Miles laughed, the sound ringing out over the delighted murmurs all around.

“Yes!” he exulted.  “Let’s go see what pretties Count Vorbarra bought us.”

Ekaterin allowed him to tow her out onto the terrace, and, inevitably, down into the garden, where the paths were lit faintly by pale lights, capped to prevent light pollution escaping upward and detracting ( _boom!_ ) from the nuptial fireworks displays.

It was hard to walk and gawk at the same time.  Their progress toward whatever destination Miles had in mind was impeded not only by their own pauses, but by the pauses of everyone else who had taken to the garden ( _boom!_ ) to view the sky.  “It’s even better from the Star Bridge,” Ekaterin heard someone say.  She had to agree: she had seen displays from the Emperor’s Birthday celebrations reflected in the slow stream of the river, and knew that vantage to be memorably superior.  Nikki was probably enjoying that vantage right now.

There was, however, something to be said for proximity: every boom shivered the ground under their feet, ricocheted from the buildings around them, and met the quiver in their stomachs with a lancing echo that mixed with the report breaking over their heads.  In days of old, this alarum might have shocked the systems of those who could mistake it for real bombs: even now, half the fun of it was the frisson of ( _boom!_ ) urge to duck and run.

In between all this thunder of ordnance, Miles said:  “Gregor said he intended to drown their pursuers in a lake of wine and escape.  But he forgot, this is Barrayar.  Who needs wine for a distraction when you’ve got fireworks?”

“This is Barrayar,” Ekaterin repeated.  “Who needs either when you can have both?”

Miles crowed ( _boom!_ ) a laugh, which was drowned out by the voiced gasps of the others as the sparking shell snaked upward and ( _crack!_ ) fell in crackling brilliance, drawing male whoops from all over the garden.

Eventually, they reached the court of the fountain with its low walls and benches, and with an amiable crowd of other wedding-goers came to rest with their heads hanging back, entranced.  The fountain’s lights had been turned off, but they could still hear the plashing hiss of the water between reports.

If Gregor was responsible for this display, Ekaterin thought, he had really outdone himself.  She had never seen fireworks on this scale, or in this variety:  spears of white that burned the vision, tangles of green and blue like vines, orange fountains, showers of burning rubies; crackling, snapping, squealing, proliferating in fresh sparks as they arced down, again ( _boom!_ ) and again ( _boom!_ ) and again ( _crack! sparkle!_ ).

All during the day, the glitter had been on the ground:  men in parade dress and House uniforms of all colors, women in gowns of every conceivable hue; swords, jewels, medals.  And faces.  Now, in the intermittent brilliance from the sky, the upturned faces around Ekaterin were scarcely distinguishable, the forms shadows, the marks of House and rank effaced, national identity itself obliterated in a collective gaze upon the upward depths of fire and air.

_Boom.  Boom._

The display was clearly beginning to ramp up to its climax, shells firing faster and overlapping in the sky, great cracks of concussion so sharp that some clapped hands to their ears and some whooped half-deafened in reply.

Her hand clasped with Miles’s, Ekaterin winced away from the unearthly beauty for a moment and surveyed the clutch of humanity gathered around her in the fountain court.  Several couples were kissing under the rain of stars; Ekaterin spotted a familiar height disparity at a distance and knew it for Mark and Kareen, taking eager advantage of their moment.  Someone, a very drunk someone, was trying his balance along the lip of the fountain, his hands thrown upward.  Inevitably, he fell in; the report of a shell masked his splash, but not the laughter of his friends as they pulled him out.  People were leaning and sitting on walls and benches, in rows like jackdaws, in clusters of threes and twos, and some enthralled alone.

Simon Illyan was one of these.  Unused now to seeing him by himself, Ekaterin had almost not registered his identity in the crowd.  He was sitting on a low wall a quarter way across the court from her, and as the light died she was startled to notice that his upturned face was streaked wet.

_Boom.  Boom.  Boom.  Crack!_

Overhead the sky shimmered in a wealth of diamond sparks that burned and brightened as they fell.  Ekaterin glanced over at Illyan.  He was weeping openly now, growing more and more overcome.  Someone should go to him, she thought, with a spasm of concern.  She wasn’t the ideal person, but if she was the only one—

The light died.

_Boom._

Blue fire now, and Ekaterin saw that Countess Cordelia had appeared from somewhere.  She sat down unobtrusively next to Illyan and took his hand.  With the other hand he covered his face.  The blue light faded.

_Boom-boom-boom-boom.  CRACK._

Sparks of all colors bloomed at once, stealing Ekaterin’s breath.  Across the way, Illyan had recovered and was looking up again, with a wet and wondering smile.  The Countess too was looking up: she was neither weeping nor smiling, but Ekaterin saw even more nakedly in her face the cost and prize of this joy.

Ekaterin looked down at Miles.  Miles’s vantage was blocked by the shoulders of the people around him; he hadn’t seen this little tableau.  But Ekaterin thought she saw in his rapt face a hint of the same poignant reward.  Yes, Miles too had paid dearly to bring them all this costly gift.  Indeed, so had she: she was at the Emperor’s wedding in dove-gray silk.

_Boom.  Boom.  Boom.  Boom.  Boom._

Count Aral had now found himself a seat on Illyan’s other side.  Under the proliferation of white chrysanthemum sparks, he said something—Ekaterin thought she could just hear the low rumble of his voice—and all three of them laughed.

_This is what history looks like_ , Ekaterin thought suddenly.  Like three old friends sitting on a wall watching fireworks.  The stewards of an empire safe and happy and well.

_Boomboomboomboomboomboom_ ….

_Oh, here it comes_.  Ekaterin felt Miles’s attention on her and looked down, just as the sky opened up and lit his face in sharp relief.   _Extravagance_ , she thought.  _Look what pretties we have bought._

She bent and kissed him, as the whole sky’s garden rained its blooms upon them.

*


End file.
